


Make Ends Meet

by kaihire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Minor Character Death (Same Characters as Canon), Prostitution, References to Suicide, Werewolf Dogfighting, derek is still a werewolf, hooker!Derek AU, mentions of underage prostitution (Derek started at 17), stiles is 16
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaihire/pseuds/kaihire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>NOTE: The first three chapters are reposted--I'm moving this fic from a 'series' to 'chapters' for easier readability. If you read the first three parts of the "Make Ends Meet" series, you will have already read these first three chapters. Since that's inconvenient, the fourth chapter will be BONUS PORN.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Stiles moves to Beacon Hills with his father and soon realizes the little town isn't as squeaky-clean as it first appears. And when he encounters Derek Hale, the most improbable hooker to ever grace a street corner, he decides he's going to stop at nothing to buy his way into those tight leather pants. </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>There's a catch, though: Derek wants absolutely nothing to do with the piece of jailbait that keeps getting in his way. Ghosts from both their pasts threaten to push them together, whether Derek likes it or not. But when Derek disappears and bodies with suspicious dog bites start showing up in the morgue, Stiles decides to take matters into his own hands.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We're All In This Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YanaGoya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YanaGoya/gifts).



> **IMPORTANT:**  
>  This started out as a short fic idea that ballooned into something bigger, so I'm making a few major changes.
> 
> The first three chapters are reposted--I'm moving this fic from a 'series' to 'chapters' for easier readability. If you read the first three parts of the "Make Ends Meet" series, you will have already read these first three chapters. Please update your bookmarks/subscriptions.
> 
> Tags have also been updated.
> 
> Because of the inconvenience I may have caused all of you, the fourth chapter will be BONUS PORN. Because you're all awesome and I want you to be happy.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos. They mean the world to me!

The first time Stiles saw Derek Hale was in the back of a police cruiser, his face scruffy and his mouth in a grim, hard line. Stiles happened to be doing a ride-along with his dad and he got to watch the end of the shake-down happen through the tinted windows of the sheriff’s Jeep. Red and blue lights lit up cracked bricks and shuttered windows; it almost made the street corner look festive, if not for the half-torn bags of trash piled waist-high along every wall and the old bullet holes in the side of a dumpster. The action was all over by the time the sheriff got there, but the cops still had several suspects rounded up for questioning, some more cooperative than others. One imposing-looking man was yelling something, two women were crying, a dog was barking in someone’s apartment. But Stiles’ gaze wandered back to the pale, angular face in the closest cruiser, and he had a tough time looking away. 

He found out later, after illegally digging through police records on his dad’s computer, that Derek Hale had been booked for prostitution. Stiles didn’t buy that. The guy had been glaring daggers through the window, his jaw tense and his shoulders wide. That wasn’t what hookers looked like. Hookers were almost invariably strung-out-looking women with incredibly depressing pasts and track marks on their thin arms. This guy was too sharp-eyed, too alert, and not the sort of alert that came from snorting bravery off of a piece of mirror, either. The only part that fit was the way his eyes looked: haunted and hollow and absolutely devastating.

His record matched the charges, though: this was the second time he’d been brought in for selling sex and there were at least two times before that where he’d been questioned on suspicion, but hadn’t been brought in to the precinct. In his first mug shot, a shirtless Derek glared straight at the camera, one corner of his mouth bloodied and scrapes and bruises covering his chest and stomach. Stiles had hesitated, knowing he was already taking plenty of risk just by being in the file. And then hit the printer icon.

In retrospect, there was no need to print out the visual reminder. Every inch of that perfect body was burned into his psyche, and as soon as he was home alone he fumbled for the bottle of hand lotion on his bedside table, rolled onto his belly, shoved his boxers half-way down his thighs, and jerked himself off to the mental image of cut muscle and imposing hazel eyes.

 

Beacon Hills wasn’t precisely the sort of place Stiles would have imagined himself living. He’d been born in San Francisco and his family had moved around as he was growing up: Boulder, Los Angeles, Chicago, Seattle. He was used to big cities with well-developed personalities, little coffee shops and neighborhood bookstores tucked away beneath corporate high-rises and neon signs. He’d sort of thought Seattle was going to be it when his parents actually started house-hunting, but maybe that had jinxed it. Maybe that was how things worked: you start to screw with patterns, and life screwed you back. His mother, whose life-long struggle with bipolar issues and depression had been mostly stable, started to spiral. Meds got adjusted, positive diversions got increased. For a while, it looked like she might be getting over the roughest part.

Stiles was the one to find her. He read all sorts of horror stories, after; kids who found their dead loved ones hanging in closets, in bloodied bathtubs, in exhaust-filled garages, in recliners from which the sharp reek of cordite never quite faded. He guessed he should have considered himself lucky. His mother had known precisely what combination of pills to take, how to stagger them; he found her in bed when he got home from school, curled up on her side, looking like she was just taking a nap. Aside from the whole not breathing thing, she looked absolutely normal, and at first he forgot that he was supposed to panic and freak out and act surprised. Maybe it was shock setting in early. Maybe it was knowing that one day, it had been bound to happen. Maybe it was even a sickening, faint sense of relief that she was no longer hurting.

So much for Seattle. Beacon Hills happened to have a position open in law enforcement that fit the bill. A couple high-profile drug busts later and Stiles’ dad was elected sheriff, barely four months after moving to town. That was how Beacon Hills differed from other suburbs, Stiles figured: they knew a good thing when they saw it, and weren’t scared to vote for it. There was also the weird dichotomy to the place. On the eastern end of town, crime was low, houses were well-maintained, and the whole neighborhood had that creepy Stepford vibe that would have been more unsettling if it hadn’t felt so comfortably safe. Town center was neutral territory, mostly mom-and-pop shops (and one determined Starbucks which nobody wanted to admit to frequenting), the municipal offices, and a community college. But the western edges of town were as seedy as parts of LA, at least in Stiles’ opinion: growing problems with drug runners and prostitution were the biggest issue, but so was crappy infrastructure and poverty levels exacerbated by a general lack of jobs in the entire county.

At least it was interesting out there. And it felt more like every temporary home that Stiles had settled into. He could put on his beaten-up jeans and his ratty red hoodie. His buzzed hair didn’t even get a second glance, nor did the sneakers that his dad kept threatening to throw in a biohazard bin. Nobody looked at him like he was about to break something, like he was too hyper, like he was a liability, not the way they did in the better part of town.

Nobody looked at him when he looked at Derek Hale, when he curled up in the same stained seat in the shittiest diner in America with a window facing northeast and looked across the street as a black leather jacket and dark denim hover just outside the range of a flickering streetlight, waiting for someone to approach.


	2. Go Through The Motions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE: The first three chapters are reposted--I'm moving this fic from a 'series' to 'chapters' for easier readability. If you read the first three parts of the "Make Ends Meet" series, you will have already read these first three chapters. Since that's inconvenient, the fourth chapter will be BONUS PORN.**
> 
> _Stiles moves to Beacon Hills with his father and soon realizes the little town isn't as squeaky-clean as it first appears. And when he encounters Derek Hale, the most improbable hooker to ever grace a street corner, he decides he's going to stop at nothing to buy his way into those tight leather pants._
> 
> _There's a catch, though: Derek wants absolutely nothing to do with the piece of jailbait that keeps getting in his way. Ghosts from both their pasts threaten to push them together, whether Derek likes it or not. But when Derek disappears and bodies with suspicious dog bites start showing up in the morgue, Stiles decides to take matters into his own hands._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **IMPORTANT:**  
>  This started out as a short fic idea that ballooned into something bigger, so I'm making a few major changes.
> 
> The first three chapters are reposted--I'm moving this fic from a 'series' to 'chapters' for easier readability. If you read the first three parts of the "Make Ends Meet" series, you will have already read these first three chapters. Please update your bookmarks/subscriptions.
> 
> Tags have also been updated.
> 
> Because of the inconvenience I may have caused all of you, the fourth chapter will be BONUS PORN. Because you're all awesome and I want you to be happy.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos. They mean the world to me!

There were days when Derek questioned his ability to continue pushing forward. Days when the cops circled like vultures or sleet was coming down in grey sheets; days when he got approached by pimps or pushers more often than customers, days when johns got so pushy that he was tempted to snap out his claws and show them how he really felt about the way their hands wandered over his body like clammy shadows of affection.

There were days that were alright, too. Days that weren’t too warm or too cold, when the cops only told him that there were other choices he could be making (like he hadn’t tried); days when the lady at the coffee shop put an extra croissant in his bag or topped off his coffee for free, days when nobody harassed him more than absolutely necessary. Days when the taste didn’t linger on his tongue.

It was depressingly obvious that a person could learn to normalize just about anything, given enough time.

Most nights when Derek worked, he did his best to just not think about it. Thinking about it accomplished nothing. At least the bruises faded fast. The memories, not so much.

 

The night of the fire, Derek remembered standing there in the orange glow interspersed with red and blue flashes from emergency response vehicles. There must have been noise—overwhelming noise—from the fire crew, the pumps on the fire truck, police radios, the creaking, collapsing house itself. But all Derek remembered hearing was the soft, keening sound that was coming from Laura’s throat as they stood there behind the yellow police tape, watching their entire world burn down. He could still vividly remember the way the ashes had landed on her wavy hair, the way the flashing lights hit every dark strand and speck of ash like dirty sparkling snowflakes, the way he wondered _who_ the ashes had been.

They had sat together in a motel bathtub, the water too hot, scrubbing each other’s hair, taking turns breaking down. Derek couldn’t remember how many times the tub got refilled. The water never seemed to want to run clean.

Years later, he still woke up smelling soot and flame.

 

Growing up, Derek had always thought that Laura was one of the lucky ones. She wasn’t a werewolf; she didn’t have to pay attention to moon cycles or be careful with playmates at recess. She didn’t have to watch her temper (her tantrums had been legendary when she hit her preteen years) and she didn’t have the hyper-sensitive senses that sometimes made human interaction literally too painful to bear.

She had normal friends and normal relationships, and she came home to normal werewolf sit-down meals with a vivacity and ease that Derek often envied. She always talked about extra-curricular activities and her “best friend of the week” and what college she had her heart set on this particular month. In contrast, Derek talked about the books he read, the music he listened to, the project he’d worked on. Derek loved his family—his pack—but he was, by nature, more of a loner. Laura was the social butterfly; Derek was the lone wolf. Their parents teased them about it constantly, but their family was tight-knit and supportive, and Derek never felt alone.

Laura had always been the strong one, out of the two of them. Their mother had once said that it was a pity she had been born human, because she was a natural Alpha, lack of fangs or not. Derek wondered if she’d ever ask for the bite, because sometimes that was an option. She would have taken to being a werewolf with ease; after all, she’d seen all the stages of it growing up, watching Derek develop from a growling little ball of irritability to an affectionate, if aloof, self-controlled youngster.

Laura showed her true strength after the fire. Two years older made her 18; made her just old enough that the state didn’t throw them both into foster care, though Derek still wasn’t sure how she managed to keep them together. With insurance money, they had more than enough to get by. Laura found them a modest apartment downtown, found herself a job while Derek finished high school. The plan was always for the two of them to start college together; it put her back, of course, but Derek never questioned her selflessness, not when Laura made it very clear that it was just as much for her as it was for him. They needed to stay together. They were all they had left.

That had been the plan.

A year later, a year and a month after the fire, to be precise, Laura fell ill. It started out innocently enough: headaches, joint pain, stomach upsets. She didn’t tell Derek for a while, chalked it up to stress and memories, then to allergies, then to flu. By the time she felt sick enough to see a doctor, the cancer had spread so far that her PET scan lit up like the worst kind of Christmas tree, garish and bright and evil.

She was dead before Derek had time to process that she wasn’t going to get better. She drifted away while he held her, curled up around her in a hospital bed with what felt like ten thousand machines setting off alarms around them. He remembered snarling at one of the doctors, the first time in his life he’d flashed his eyes at someone who didn’t know who he was.

The bills that came added practical insult to emotional injury. Derek had refused to let her go easily, and Laura herself had wanted to fight to the very end. Experimental treatments weren’t cheap; once everything was paid off, once the modest funeral was taken care of, Derek Hale was left with precisely $7,000 to his name and not a penny more. With nobody around, with his entire life wiped off the face of the planet in under two years’ time, Derek started to give in to very real feelings of despair. It was only Laura’s wishes that kept him going—Laura’s _orders_ that he push ahead no matter what, that he do whatever he needed to in order to move on, get a degree, live his life.

She said he wouldn’t be alone for long. She was right, in all the wrong ways.

Beacon Hills wasn’t a big enough town to exactly have a thriving economy. There was the hospital, of course, and the university, but people tended to say in the jobs they had, and seasonal positions that went to students had waiting lists a mile long. It was almost by accident that someone approached Derek when he’d wandered a little too far west to see if he could at least get a part-time job helping out at a garage; anything, really, because his bank account was very quickly being depleted.

The first time, Derek didn’t realize what was happening until there was money being pushed into his pocket and the proposition practically spelled out in the way the man looked at him. _Just one time,_ he told himself. _It won’t be so bad._

Afterwards, he searched twice as hard for another option. He even tried the fast food places, the next town over, delivery jobs. The economy was shitty for everyone; it was especially shitty for a 17-year-old cast adrift without so much as a friend to his name or a distant relative to call in favors from.

He went back to where he’d met his first john. It was harder this time, like he knew there would be no going back. And when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he wondered if this was what Laura would have wanted for him. But he wasn’t going to break his promise, even if keeping it shattered him in the process.

Before long, asking, “What’ll it be?” felt as natural as shrugging on his jacket. Before long, he got a reputation for charging more but being willing to cater to a rougher crowd. Before long, half his money came from men who got off primarily on the beating, not the fucking.

Before long, Derek found the right combination of mouth wash and antiseptic soap and shampoo to scrub away the lingering scent of sweat and come and blood until, as dawn broke the horizon and he finally crawled into his bed, he could almost tell himself that he wasn’t broken.


	3. Liberties Not To Be Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE: The first three chapters are reposted--I'm moving this fic from a 'series' to 'chapters' for easier readability. If you read the first three parts of the "Make Ends Meet" series, you will have already read these first three chapters. Since that's inconvenient, the fourth chapter will be BONUS PORN.**
> 
> Stiles moves to Beacon Hills with his father and soon realizes the little town isn't as squeaky-clean as it first appears. And when he encounters Derek Hale, the most improbable hooker to ever grace a street corner, he decides he's going to stop at nothing to buy his way into those tight leather pants.
> 
> There's a catch, though: Derek wants absolutely nothing to do with the piece of jailbait that keeps getting in his way. Ghosts from both their pasts threaten to push them together, whether Derek likes it or not. But when Derek disappears and bodies with suspicious dog bites start showing up in the morgue, Stiles decides to take matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **IMPORTANT:**  
>  This started out as a short fic idea that ballooned into something bigger, so I'm making a few major changes.
> 
> The first three chapters are reposted--I'm moving this fic from a 'series' to 'chapters' for easier readability. If you read the first three parts of the "Make Ends Meet" series, you will have already read these first three chapters. Please update your bookmarks/subscriptions.
> 
> Tags have also been updated.
> 
> Because of the inconvenience I may have caused all of you, the fourth chapter will be BONUS PORN. Because you're all awesome and I want you to be happy.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos. They mean the world to me!

Stiles knew that there were at least several major reasons why trying to pay Derek Hale for sex was a terrible idea. In fact, he had them all sketched out on a notepad that he carried around with him whenever he went to the ratty diner.

For one, _it_ was _expensive_ , and Stiles didn’t even know how expensive. Not knowing how much money he should have on him when he made his big move was totally a problem. He worked part-time at the police precinct helping the filing clerk. He was the _assistant to the filing clerk_. He wasn’t precisely rolling in the Benjis. What if Derek’s fees ran into the several hundred range? Stiles couldn’t find an average asking price despite hours of Googling, and it wasn’t like he could say, “Dude, not cool, can’t you price match this website? That’s like three times the local going rate for a blowjob.”

He sort of got side-tracked whenever _Derek_ and _blowjob_ went together in the same sentence.

Next there was the fact that it was, oh, totally illegal to solicit someone for sex, even someone with cheekbones like a Roman statue and eyes like burning embers and—Ok, so poetry totally wasn’t his strong suit. Suffice it to say that Derek’s hotness didn’t make it any more legal for him to be a prostitute, nor did it make it any more reasonable for Stiles to want to purchase his wares. His really, really tight wares. That you could bounce a coin off of. _Jesus_.

Right. Hooker. Buying. Illegal.

Especially since he was the sheriff’s son. Not only would he be in actual, like, _legal_ trouble, but his father would probably murder him. And chop him into itty bitty pieces. And he’d know how to dispose of the evidence so that his body was never found.

At least he wouldn’t die a virgin, though? Ok, that could totally go on the list of pros, not cons. Death: con. Not dying a virgin: pro. Good enough.

There was also the fact that Derek was so painfully hot that Stiles might not precisely last long enough to be worth whatever ridiculous sum of money it took to get off with Derek. He might never live that down. Ever. And with a guy as painfully hot as Derek, Stiles thought he might actually be flat-out rejected, though now that he’d watched him for a few weeks, he was pretty sure the dark-haired guy wasn’t particularly picky.

Oh, right. That was one of the other reasons this was a bad idea: Stiles was starting to worry that he was getting a bit stalker-y about this whole venture.

Sure, he had his reasons for skirting around the issue of actually propositioning Derek, compounded by that whole _I’ve never done any of this shit before_ thing, but did most people take that long to, uh, decide this sort of thing? Was he just that much of a coward? Was Derek Hale really that intimidating? Was he really having this conversation with himself again?

“Another Pepsi, sugar?”

“Ohmygod,” Stiles squeaked, snapping the cover of his book closed and staring up at the waitress with wide, startled eyes. “What?”

She popped her gum and looked affectionately disinterested.

“I said, you want another Pepsi, sugar?”

“Oh. Pepsi. Awesome. Sure.”

The waitress flashed a half-assed smile, but returned with a new cup that was heavily iced and watered down. It didn’t matter; Stiles paid for the prime viewing angle, not the actual drink.

“You ever gonna ask him out?” she asked, gesturing in the direction of the street corner with her chin. “You been watching him like he’s the last bit of prime steak at the butcher’s.”

Stiles totally didn’t want to dissect that choice of metaphor. His brain still totally side-tracked to cannibal waitresses and how that was not a movie he ever wanted to see. Ever. Ok maybe.

“He, ah, I mean, that’s not.”

The waitress just looked unimpressed, and Stiles slurped at his soda.

“I mean. He’s all,” he waved his arms around. “And I’m all.”

“He’s for _sale_. He ain’t gonna be picky. ‘Sides, you’re pretty cute.” She patted his cheek, and Stiles wondered if this was some sort of ploy to get another few quarters out of him in tips or if Fate was sending a sketchy diner messenger to steer him along his path. “You should get you some while the gettin’s good. A face like that’s gonna have an expiration date.”

Stiles had the sudden uneasy feeling that she didn’t precisely mean _aging_ , either. Suddenly the whole seedy aspect of it started to hit home.

Across the street, a nondescript silver sedan pulled up to Derek’s street corner. The dark-haired man glanced around, then leaned over to talk to the driver. Stiles couldn’t help but stare at the curve of Derek’s very impressive ass through his incredibly tight jeans (Stiles still wasn’t sure if he preferred those or the leather pants he sometimes wore when it was colder and yeah, ok, he’d been observing him long enough to know that was a pattern, but he wasn’t a creep, he really wasn’t, he was just totally indecisive, alright?) as Derek shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

Apparently whatever had been up for discussion was sufficient, though Stiles could see the man in the car grinning smugly but got a hint of tension in Derek’s jaw before he flashed his own toothy grin in response and got in the car. The taillights disappeared quickly down a back street, and Sties sank heavily back into the torn vinyl of the diner seat.

Some asshole in a Prius had just picked up Derek Hale. His odds couldn’t be _that_ terrible by comparison.

His mind was made up.

 

Despite all the nerves and build-up, Stiles still managed to finally make it across the street the following night. He was wearing his least-ratty jeans, his most no-nonsense Converse, a clean t-shirt (what, most of them weren’t!) and his red hoodie. The closer he got, the more intimidating Derek Hale looked. He had to be, like, seven feet tall and made of twice the muscle of a normal mortal. Or something. He leaned against the cracked brick wall, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, one foot propped back against the wall and hips canted forward like a terrible, terrible, delicious cliché.

“Hey,” Stiles said, and hated himself when his voice squeaked. Derek’s eyes seemed to glow from the shadows, but that was totally just Stiles’ boner talking. It had to be. And he realized the man had been following his progress since he started walking across the street.

“You’ve been scoping me out from the diner,” Derek said, his voice half-way between amused and weirded out. Stiles sort of hoped the sidewalk would swallow him whole, but now was not the time to lose his nerve. Play it cool, that was all he had to do. Play it cool.

“I might have noticed you, yeah,” he said, aiming for suave. It came out too rushed and too high. Derek hiked a perfect eyebrow and Stiles felt his stomach twist up in a really interesting Chinese knot. “I’m um. I’m not really an impulse shopper.”

Both eyebrows rose at that. Shit. Shit, not good.

“I mean.” Stiles cleared his throat. “You, uh. You busy?”

The eyebrows descended back to what was neutral eyebrow territory, as far as Stiles could tell. He wasn’t precisely fluent in Runway Model Eyebrow-ese. Derek’s mouth did some sort of inexplicable little twist, like it wasn’t sure if it was supposed to smile or grimace, and then smoothed out to an expression that was very acutely _suave_.

“Depends. What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, uh.” Don’t start stuttering. Don’t start stuttering. What even _was_ that eye color? It was like hazel on acid. “You know. The usual.” Shit.

“The usual,” Derek deadpanned, and then his expression went from vaguely smarmy to aggressive. He grabbed a fistful of Stiles’ sweatshirt and hauled him close, close enough that Stiles could count every eyelash and get a ridiculously hot whiff of spicy cologne, leather jacket, and faint hint of sweat. Hey, on the up side, maybe he’d just come in his pants and spare them both the embarrassment of continuing this conversation. “Are you a cop?”

“A what?” Stiles squeaked. “Are you kidding me? No, I’m not a—I’m just trying to—Oh my god you’re really strong—I’m not even old enough to be a—“

Oops.

Derek dropped him like he was radioactive.

“That’s not what I meant, I’m—“

“You got ID?” Derek asked suddenly, his expression back to carefully-schooled disinterest.

“I left it in my other—“

“Diapers. Right. How about you go back to your little diner and get off my sidewalk, kid. You’re scaring away the actual business. And don’t come back.”

Stiles’ mouth fell open in shock, then closed as he smoothed down the fabric Derek’s hands had rumpled.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he chirped instead, refusing to admit defeat. If there was one thing Derek Hale was going to learn, it was that Stiles did _not_ give up without a fight. “And uh. I’ll bring my ID.”


	4. In Your Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shameless, unapologetic porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, not a scrap of plot is in sight.

Rejection wasn't exactly something that Stiles was _un_ familiar with. He'd spent a good few years of his life pining for Lydia Martin back in Seattle, but that hadn't precisely worked out. Relationships never worked out for him in general; nobody who wasn't family had the patience for someone with so much unrestrained energy. Rejection by a prostitute felt a bit different, though. Seriously, Derek got _paid_ to not say no, didn't he? Wasn't that the whole point?

Alright, so logically he knew that Derek still had a choice and could say yes or no to whoever he wanted (presuming he didn't have some pimp daddy telling him what to do) and that was precisely why Stiles dragged his heels on his way home. Derek's line of work meant saying 'no' wasn't likely, so the rejection was twice as galling. 

He got rebuked by a hooker. 

Not just a brush-off, either. Like, absolutely turned down. How much of a loser must he be? Wasn't the whole point of being a ridiculously good-looking prostitute that it gave goofy-looking dudes like Stiles a chance to live the dream, even if only an hour at a time? Right? It was practically a public service or something.

Despite feeling down about the whole thing, Stiles was ever the optimist. Derek had said he looked too young, and it was highly likely that that was the only reason he'd been turned down flat. That was totally an easy fix, right? He'd just bring his awesome fake ID (hey, it worked about 68% of the time at clubs) and try again. 

And again. And again. Because if Derek was just worried about his age, well... he shouldn't. Stiles was very ready for some hot action, alright? Like, very very ready. And he had the money, too. 

Sort of. 

Mostly. 

He had enough, ok? This was important. He didn't want to die a virgin. That sort of thing would somehow end up on his tombstone and then all the other dead people would make fun of him for eternity.

Also, rejection apparently gave him a stifling case of performance failure. Stiles tried to get off in the shower, just to take the edge off his tension, but he kept losing focus and his dick just wasn't in the game. What self-respecting teenage guy had a hard time being, well, hard?

"Awesome. I can't even _jerk off_ correctly." He let his head hit the tiled wall lightly and turned the water to freezing cold. "And a fuck you to you too, Mr Penis," Stiles muttered, watching himself recoil from the icy blast. He dried off and climbed into a pair of boxers, then rolled himself into a blanket burrito. His eyes were closing before he even got himself comfortably settled.

 

Stiles’ body had far less of a problem responding correctly once he slipped under. The dream started almost the second he was asleep, his breath deepening and his mind going still. 

In his dream, the window creaked loudly as someone slid it open without much attempt at subtlety. Stiles sat up in a pleasant haze, just in time to watch Derek—a very shirtless Derek, his hair mussed and his breath visible in the cool air—ease his way over the windowframe as though climbing into second story windows was the most natural thing in the world. Every muscle shifted under his skin like poetry, highlighted in the light cast by a perfect full moon. Stiles’ eyes tried to focus. 

Derek’s chest hair was just as coarse-looking as—

But no, no, that wouldn’t be right. Wouldn’t he wax, if he was working the streets? Of course he would. 

Stiles shifted listlessly under the blanket. 

In his dream, Derek turned further into the light and, sure enough, his chest was smooth and perfectly defined, though there was a bold trail of dark hair creeping up towards his navel from beneath the waistband of his jeans. Stiles shifted, growing hard, his breathing taking on a quicker cadence. He wanted to nuzzle against the front of Derek’s jeans, run his tongue up that trail to circle his navel.

Derek’s broad hands slid along his belt, as if knowing precisely where Stiles was looking. He undid the buckle in a firm, easy shift of his hand, the broad knuckles catching moonlight. The belt got tossed aside and then Derek was undoing the top button of his jeans, and the next, working his way down the button fly like he knew precisely how hard it was making Stiles. 

Boxers? No, that wouldn’t—

Derek eased the jeans down an inch or two and Stiles exhaled a little shudder. The black boxer-briefs definitely fit his macho persona more accurately. Derek slid the jeans lower still, his thumbs brushing over the hard lines of his hipbones through black cotton. Stiles could feel himself leaking faintly into the soft fabric of his boxers, his stomach clenching with a need he couldn’t articulate.

The jeans got kicked aside and Stiles was left with very little to imagine. Derek’s cock rested half-hard against the inside of his right thigh in sharp relief, thick and long and absolutely perfect. As Stiles watched, Derek ran his hand down along the length of it, letting it fill out more in his grip.

And then Derek was crossing the room, his bare feet silent on the floor, the muscles shifting over his ribs like a panther’s, heavy and unrushed. Somehow the blanket had disappeared and Stiles was exposed, too wrapped up in Derek to be self-conscious of his lean frame, his pale skin, a body that looked so breakable by comparison.

Derek flashed a toothy, wide grin that was more predatory than anything on ‘Shark Week’ and caught Stiles’ legs behind the knees, hauling him to the edge of the bed in one smooth jerk. Even before Stiles’ feet touched the floor, Derek was nudging his freckle-dotted thighs apart with his legs and sliding lower, lower; Stiles’ gaze went from cock to abs to chest to collarbones, brain rushing to catch up, and then Derek was kneeling fully between his thighs. The insides of Stiles’ knees rested against his flanks, and he could feel the other man’s breathing quicken.

Stiles’ vision swam. He caught a hand against Derek’s shoulder for support and nearly yanked it back. Derek’s skin felt as hot as summer pavement, and the muscle beneath it was so hard that Stiles actually wondered if it wasn’t made of liquid metal. Derek glanced up, his eyes hooded, and Stiles thought he saw a flash of blue before the moonlight caught hazel irises again.

He wanted to ask what, _why_ —

But Derek’s hand was on his belly, and Derek’s hand was on his inner thigh, and Derek’s mouth was working over the inside of his left hipbone in a way that made him see stars. Like his skin, Derek’s mouth was too _hot_ , unnaturally so, but Stiles couldn’t formulate words, not with the scrape of Derek’s stubble making goosebumps lift on his inner thighs, on his arms and chest. 

He felt a sharper point, almost like a fang, and then Derek was parting his lips and taking him into his mouth. Stiles’ world narrowed to impossible heat, to the shift of Derek’s tongue against the underside of his cock, to the way he hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard enough to make Stiles’ vision starburst against the backs of his eyelids.

“Derek, I—“

Derek swallowed, and Stiles felt his throat flex around him once, twice. He _felt_ rather than heard a rough rumble, a growl that formed somewhere in Derek's core and crept all the way up to the root of Stiles' cock. And he was gone, so fucking gone, vision blurring out, coming hard enough that he jolted himself awake, hot splashes landing on his belly, chest, thigh.

“…fuck,” Stiles wheezed about ten minutes later, when he had enough breath to form a word and his heart no longer felt like it was hammering its way out of his chest. He felt boneless and spent and he really, really needed to get laid if that was what his imagination was providing in place of regular dreams.

One burning question lingered even as he wiped away any evidence with his discarded t-shirt and flopped back into bed. If that was how good Derek was in his dreams, just how did Stiles expect to ever be able to handle the real thing?


End file.
